


Clandestine Comfort

by Band_obsessed



Series: Darkest Before the Dawn [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Aka: This Episode Won't Leave Me Alone, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s04e01-02 The Darkest Hour, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Secret Relationship, not so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:49:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27725747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Band_obsessed/pseuds/Band_obsessed
Summary: “Lancelot?” Arthur asks, hope and fear fighting futilely for space in his chest, for the air in his throat. “How’s Merlin?” The words spill forth before he can control them, before he can determine whether he wants to know. Whether he wants to hear the words he’s been dreading since Merlin left his sight.ORMerlin returns after recovering from the dorocha's touch. It's not the kind of relief Arthur had been expecting.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), One-sided Merlin/Lancelot, kind of - Relationship
Series: Darkest Before the Dawn [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2028496
Comments: 11
Kudos: 203





	Clandestine Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all so, so much for your kind words and feedback on my last two works! I bring you the third (but not final) instalment to this pseudo-series. I'll probably group them together into an actual series for clarity's sake. Thank you also for being so patient while I work on this. University is incredibly hectic and stressful at the moment, so your patience really is appreciated greatly <3
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Other works in this 'series' if you're interested:  
> [i](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27081427)  
> [ii](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27491380)
> 
> edit: i've finally grouped these together into a series, so it should hopefully be easier to follow now

Arthur is almost asleep when he hears it. The fire had lulled him better than anything else could; the hushed, murmured conversations of the knights providing a sense of safety he hadn’t felt since setting off for Camelot.

Since watching Merlin ride off.

He hadn’t let himself think about that for too long — think about Merlin’s listless eyes, the cold touch of his skin. It felt like his mind was splitting in two whenever he lingered on it, whenever he thought of the words still lodged in his chest, stuck between guilt and fear.

Between duty and want.

He had, in truth, grown accustomed to Merlin at his side. To the weight of his head on his shoulder, or an arm strewn across his waist. It had happened more times than Arthur could count. He had woken to Merlin’s hand around his, to their legs tangled together so oft he could scarcely call it anything other than what it was. A partnership, no matter how fickle and delicate.

Merlin’s absence is an ocean, now. A rift as wide as Camelot’s borders stretching between them. The fire does little to alleviate the ache in his chest but it warms his limbs, leaves them loose and pliant.

Until the doors open, screech against the floors, grate metal against stone. His sword is drawn before he’s fully on his feet, stumbling blindly forward, trying to put himself in front of Merlin, keep him safe and—

He falters. Trips over a loose rock at his feet and barely manages to stabilise himself before he falls.

Merlin isn’t here. The only figures standing behind him are the knights, all equally poised for battle, clad in gleaming silver. And gods, Arthur hadn’t even given Merlin armour. Had given him nothing for protection apart from Lancelot. A single knight tasked with a near impossible journey. And if they got to him — bandits, beasts, the dorocha — then there was nothing between Merlin and death. No protection. No barrier apart from his clothes, threadbare and thin and—

No. Lancelot would protect him. Lancelot would protect Merlin with his life and then some, Arthur is sure of it. But still, that voice, that tiny, tugging whisper at the back of his mind claws down his spine. _What if that’s not enough? What if you sent him out there, all alone, led them both to their deaths?_

Arthur rights himself, steps forward slowly, unsurely, focusing on scanning the darkness, on silencing his mind. A shape steps from the shadows, half-formed in the dim light and his grip around his sword tightens, jaw set.

But then the light catches its face, illuminates the curls of hair, the slope of a nose and—

“Lancelot?” Arthur asks, hope and fear fighting futilely for space in his chest, for the air in his throat. “How’s Merlin?” The words spill forth before he can control them, before he can determine whether he wants to know. Whether he wants to hear the words he’s been dreading since Merlin left his sight.

Lancelot stays quiet for a moment. Two. Arthur’s heart sinks, stomach tangling itself into a knot, into a pit, a boulder at the bottom of a lake.

Two words later and Arthur’s entire world halts, stutters, crumbles to ash and dust and regret. _”Bad news.”_

Bad news, bad news, bad news, bad—

Oh, gods. Oh, _gods_. He had been right, back then, back when he had pressed his lips to Merlin’s brow, clutched to him so tightly he feared he would bruise. He had been right that that was to be the last time he ever saw Merlin, the last time his eyes would ever land on his form whilst he lived, no matter how tentatively. It had been the last time and still he hadn’t managed to speak the words he needed to. Had let them cower and hide in his chest, lodge in his throat.

Die along with Merlin.

 _Die_.

It is the sound of his sword clattering against the floor that snaps him from his thoughts and still the world is wrong. Wrong in a way he cannot place. There is not enough air in his chest, not enough sound in the entire world to possibly break through whatever barrier it is around his ears. Fear and anger scrap over the last remnants of his heart, sink claws into his chest.

It is agony. Agony of the purest kind. No battle wound has ever hurt like this. No sword has pierced him so deeply, no mace has left him so exposed, so vulnerable. Flayed for all to see, his useless heart stuttering in a half-broken chest.

Faintly, he registers the concern on Lancelot’s face, the rushed words on his tongue, but it is too distant for him to hear.

Foolish. He is so foolish standing here, drowning in nothing but open air, an expanse of dry land. He is a prince, a king, the only heir to Camelot’s throne and he cannot even open his mouth.

Mute and defenceless and wounded in ways he had never thought to be possible.

“Merlin!” Elyan exclaims, joyous and loud and rage snaps at Arthur’s heels, coils its way up his spine.

Halts before it reaches his mouth.

Because there, standing right there, risen out of the shadows, from the obscured view behind Lancelot’s back, is Merlin.

_Merlin._

Merlin, breathing. Merlin, alive. Merlin, looking at him with those damned eyes that Arthur swore he would never see lucid again.

The sharp edges of his grief burn, melt themselves back down to sand in a fit of hope that flares so bright it threatens to blind him. In the beating of his heart he hears only Merlin’s name, the roar of blood in his ears, the heady, suffocating rush of relief.

Arthur is laughing before he can stop himself, breathless and weak, frenzied in the way his breath leaves his chest in small, panting gasps — it is not behaviour fit for a king, it is barely behaviour fit for an adult. But then Merlin is in front of him — an arms length away at most — and what is left of Arthur’s resolve shatters.

He has embraced Merlin more times than he can count. Flung an arm around his shoulders, carded fingers through his hair, met his hold with a clap on the back but none have compared to this. This primal, base _need_ , this angry, fearful grip he clings to him with. Tucks his face against Merlin’s neck and breathes him in, relishes in the steady thrumming of his pulse beneath his lips as he counts out the beats — one, two, one, two, one, two.

“Merlin,” he forces, winces at the sound of his own voice, scraped ragged against his throat, thick with emotions he cannot place.

Merlin’s grip tightens, his arms pressing almost painfully against Arthur’s ribs. “Miss me?”

It is meant as a joke. But something in Merlin’s tone drags it down, makes it echo hollowly in Arthur’s ears. There is not a single word he can think of to explain what Merlin’s absence felt like. ‘Miss’ doesn’t even come close. Arthur did not ‘miss’ Merlin like he missed summer or the sun or hunting. He missed him like he’d miss his arm, like he’d miss his sight, like he missed the memories of mother. An ache, a dull, spreading pain that threatened to consume him if he lingered on it too long. It left him bereft, empty, his every breath echoing with a resounding sob.

“You are never to leave my side again,” Arthur murmurs, presses the words to the warm skin of Merlin’s neck. He is careful to keep his voice low, quiet enough to not be heard by any other. “I forbid it.”

They are not the words he means to say, but Merlin must hear them anyway. Hear the implicit message, feel the brush of Arthur’s lips against his neck as he sounds out the syllables. Silently. Slowly. Tenderly.

Merlin shivers against him, curls his fingers into the spaces between Arthur’s armour. “If I recall it was you who sent me away.”

“Yes, well, you have always called me foolish.”

He does not mean to be that truthful. That open. But Merlin has stripped away all his defences, left him bare, exposed.

“Gods, Merlin,” he whispers, reaches up to tangle his fingers in Merlin’s hair. “I thought you’d…”

The word sticks on his tongue. Reverberates hollowly around in his head. Settles behind his eyes, in his mouth, dark and desperate and cloying.

Merlin smoothes a hand down his back, presses his body as close to Arthur’s as he possibly can and still it is not close enough. Arthur would divest himself of his armour right here, tug Merlin so close against his skin that he may use his bones as protection.

But they are not alone. There is no privacy afforded to them. They are not in Arthur’s chambers with the door locked and bolted, nor are they hidden in a thicket of the woods. So Arthur squeezes his eyes closed instead, presses his lips to Merlin’s neck in a chaste, hidden kiss.

Still — he might have laid his entire chest bare, spilled all the words he’d kept locked up behind walls higher than Camelot’s defences. Equally he might have stood there, clinging to Merlin with a desperation that was growing painful, stood frozen, timeless, as the world spun away around them.

But Gwaine’s hand lands heavily on his shoulder, jostles him even through the layers of armour. “Come on now, Princess — you can’t keep him all to yourself.”

Arthur expects to find anger. He expects indignation, a glowing rage, a tempest growing behind his teeth. He finds none. Only a distant rumble of thunder, a pang of fury, dulled by the relief coursing like a flood through his veins; an ocean forced through the canal of a river.

Merlin’s fingers draw patterns against his scalp, hidden by the length of his hair, by the shadows at their back. Clandestine comfort. A gentle reminder of his presence.

“I think you’ll find that I can, _Sir_ Gwaine.” There’s no bite to his words, nothing beyond a jest amongst friends and what hesitancy that was on Gwaine’s face fades into gentle mirth.

“And here I was worried I’d have to fight you for him.”

Arthur laughs, a single bark of a sound and beneath his hair Merlin’s fingers stutter in answer. “I’d like to see you try.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, you’re still missing a weapon.” Gwaine looks to the floor, nudges the gleaming blade of Arthur’s sword with the toe of his boot.

“I could best you regardless, sword or not.”

“Well, keep Merlin all to yourself much longer and we’ll find out, won’t we?” Gwaine asks, grinning in the firelight.

“Come,” Arthur says, turning to Merlin and ignoring Gwaine. “It’s too cold to be this far from the fire.“

It’s even colder now he is not holding Merlin — Merlin who is always nothing short of a furnace. The shadows stretching around the ruins still send blackened fingers down his spine, skim across his skin until it prickles. There are no dorocha here but that does not stop Arthur from seeing threats were there are none, for being irrational in his cautious relief — so tentatively careful — as if something might snatch Merlin away to a place he cannot follow.

Merlin catches his wrist before he can withdraw his arm properly, curls his fingers around the bone. “Wait.” Arthur does. “The veil, tomorrow — Arthur, you don’t have to, you—“

“Merlin—” The words lodge in his throat. Clump together under the weight of his choices, his heart, his—

“Let me take your place.”

“No.” It’s louder than he meant — harsher, too, if Merlin’s flinch is anything to go by and Gwaine’s shadow slinks away from the corner of Arthur’s eye.

“Arthur, you’ve said it yourself — what’s the life of a servant compared to that of a prince?”

Arthur’s heart drums like a metronome in his chest — he allows his tongue to follow the rhythm, to draw courage from the flush on Merlin’s cheeks, the desperation glistening in his eyes.

“Merlin,” he starts, dropping his voice down to scarcely above a whisper. “Your life means more to me than you will ever know.”

“And yours doesn’t to me? Arthur, I’m not going to stand by while you sacrifice yourself—“

“This isn’t a point for discussion, Merlin. My decision is final.”

The colour in Merlin’s face darkens in a rush and Arthur’s chest constricts, his throat spasming around itself.

He knows Merlin is not to give up, can see it in the set of his jaw, the press of his lips. So he does the only thing he can think of — cradles the back of his head with his palm and brings their brows together.

“Please. Do not question me on this.” He drags the pad of his thumb across Merlin’s cheek, leans in until their noses brush. “Not this.”

“Arthur,” Merlin starts, cuts himself off with a choked inhale. “Arthur, I lo—“

It is too much to hear out here in the open like this. With the quiet movements of the knights not much more than an arms length away. “I know. I know.”

“Then don’t. _Please._ ”

Arthur smiles sadly, pointedly ignores the pressure building behind his eyes, the weight on his shoulders.

“Come on. I’ve kept you long enough.”

“Arthur—“

He ignores Merlin’s plea, clenches his jaw as he retrieves his sword and sheaths it with a hiss of metal. “Gwaine will have my head, mutiny or not.”

He does not need to look over his shoulder to know Merlin is trailing behind him, standing a scarce inch from his right shoulder. Arthur wrestles his feelings to the floor, plunges the length of his blade as deep as he is able. He wonders if death will be as empty as they say. Emptier still with nothing but blank space at his back, an expanse of shadows and no light.

And is not until after, after the knights have fallen asleep, after the fire has been stoked and fuelled to last the night, after Merlin lies pressed against his side, tucked against the hard lines of Arthur’s armour that he wonders how he is to give this all up. How he is to walk into death without looking back, how he is to trail his fingers across Merlin’s face for the last time, how he is to press their lips together and not taste the life that could have been.

It is not until then that Lancelot turns, blinks open his eyes and catches Arthur’s gaze. They are alert, sad and wide and Arthur knows that he is not the only one who couldn’t find the embrace of sleep.

“Are you really to…”

“There is no other choice.”

“Sire—“

“You care for him, don’t you?” Arthur asks, hushed in the silence.

Lancelot nods, averts his gaze from Merlin’s face. “I would give my life for his safety.”

“Then look after him after I— After I—“

“I will.”

Hysteria blooms in Arthur’s chest, curls roots around his ribs. “Swear it. Give me your word that you will protect him.”

For a moment Lancelot smiles, wan and faint. There’s a faraway look in his eyes, an echo of the past, a reminder. It is gone a second later, dispersed back into weary finality. “You have my word.”

“You should rest with the others. We set off at first light.”

It is selfish, he knows, to rid himself of Lancelot’s presence. But his time left with Merlin is fleeting and he does not appreciate Lancelot’s gaze on his fingers as they skim through Merlin’s hair, trace the line of his brows, trail down his face.

Lancelot nods, mute, and turns away, faces towards the fire.

Arthur is content — as content as he is able to be with tomorrow’s fate looming above him like a blackened storm cloud — to count the hours left, watch as they tick down into minutes, drain into seconds. The flames crackle, spit sparks into the air, and Arthur memorises the feeling of Merlin’s cheek beneath his palm.

**Author's Note:**

> Other works in this 'series' if you're interested:  
> [i](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27081427)  
> [ii](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27491380)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I have a sequel of sorts planned to address Lancelot's death as well as Merlin's magic and maybe both Merlin and Arthur will finally get their heads out of their arses (one can hope). 
> 
> Please consider leaving a comment or kudos if you enjoyed <3


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